Tanya and John are in town with their little girl Elle. She is a real cutie.

Miss Sally keeps predicting that she is having a boy. We both would like a girl to complete the set.

It seems that 95% of the people that want to talk about the sex of our upcoming child have some secret knowledge into what the sex of our child will be. Here are the criteria that these child sex experts have brought up:

How low the baby is If the belly button is in or outIf the mother's butt got fatIf the mother is craving meatIf the mother is craving sweetsIf the mother has let a metal object swing above her wrist and if it circles or swings back and forth.If the belly is sticking out or roundedIf

*********

OK, that's as far with that post as I got. Before I could finish, we had the breaking of water and so on and so forth.

As you know, we had a girl. And as predicted, 50% of the people who guessed were incorrect.

I've always loved the statistic that 50% of American women are below average while half of all American men are above average.

It's good to be half right, 50% of the time. It's better to be half wrong, 100% of the time.

My co-worker, Angie, got a phone call from her very distraught mother. Here is her mother’s tale:

Angie’s mom walked into her office building and to the elevator on the first floor. Her mom is in her late 50’s so she is familiar with technologies such as the phone and the elevator. Being familiar with the elevator, she pushed the button and got in. She pushed another button to go up. A second after the doors shut and the elevator started going up, the elevator jerked to a stop.

She waited for a bit. No movement. She did what all normal people do and tried pushing all the buttons that weren’t red. Numbers. Open door. Close door. (I don’t know why she even tried those as they don’t work anyways.) All the normal buttons did nothing so she hit the red EMERGENCY button. It was the type that makes a ringing sound when you press it, but stops making the ringing sound when you stop pressing it. A doorbell for people who think they are going to starve to death. She hit it again and again for longer and longer amounts of time, but no handsome fireman’s voice came through the neatly drilled holes in the stainless steel.

Time passes.

She was getting worried. Then she noticed the phone in the little glass booth. She was familiar with that technology.

There were no numbers to dial, so she put the phone to her ear. It was ringing. A woman answered. Something like, “Otis emergency elevator service. How can I help you?”

What do you say in situation like that? Me? I’d joke around about sending up a pizza or that they’d better hurry because the elevator was filling with water and piranhas. Basically, you give them the address of the building and tell them you are stuck. It would probably make them happy not to get a prank call.

What did Angie’s mom say?

“I’m sorry. I have the wrong number.” And hung up.

After this, she started to get panicky. And what does a woman in her 50s do when she is stuck in an elevator with no food or water and gets panicky? Why, with the strength of 80 drunken men she wedged her fingers in between the elevator doors and ripped them open! She then put her fingers between the outer doors and ripped them open! The elevator was about 18” above the first floor so she got on her hands and knees and climbed out of the elevator and flopped (the ungracious kind of flop) out on to the 1st floor. A co-worker was the solitary witness to the floppage. He had heard the emergency bell and called for help.

Why hadn’t the help arrived?

Because between the button pushing and the emergency button pushing and the phone calling and the panicking, she had been stuck in the elevator for a total of five minutes.

Perhaps elevators distort time. When the doors shut, time speeds up on the inside while remaining constant on the outside. Different elevators have different levels of time distortion based on how stinky the elevator is and who is in it with you. When I had sex in an elevator, it seemed like hours, but when we got out, only a few minutes had passed.

Angie’s mom made it out with nothing more than a bruised psyche. I have not asked Angie how many days her mom took the stairs until she got over her fear of that elevator.

We all knew it. No one wanted to say anything. Finally someone did and then it was a Who concert stampede of agreement. Shorty was, in his secret life, Lance Bass. How a Dayton native could grow to receive so much fame was beyond our reasoning, but yet he did. He kept the media circus to a minimum and some how was able to tour and hold down a design job while spending 12 hours a day at DeFabCo while painting Gaelic designs on refrigerators.

Of course, there were rumors. Questions. Elle magazine subscriptions. We all, once again, began to wonder how the fame would go to his loins. Shorty would spend a lot of time at choir practices and The Columbus Men's Origami functions. We knew the news would break... we just didn't know how big it would break. PEOPLE magazine came out with the story. We still love you Lance/Shorty. Just now it the other 50% of us that are more frightened.

I asked our household psychic to help us find the murderer of JonBenet. He drew the following sketch to assist the Boulder police in locating the murderer.

Clearly you can see the drawing of a one finned porpoise. Inside that animal is a street level map of Leadville, CO. There are also two hieroglyphics representing toilet and forge.

The porpoise is winking.

Our analyses of the drawing are probably the exact same ones that you have derived from the sketch:

1. Porpoises are fish that breathe air2. Leadville, CO once had the 12th largest Jewish community in Colorado3. The two symbols together can be roughly translated to John-Smith.4. Porpoises do not have maps on their insides, but have been known to swallow fish sized globes.5. Do not trust winking porpoises

Here is what can be surmised from the drawing:

The father did it.

The psychic may also have been influenced by me asking him to draw a picture of mommy with baby in her belly. This is still being investigated.

I’m as guilty as the 97% of everyone else who thought the family was involved. I just like to place my blame on the media.

**Please note: I woke up this morning and decided that I think this guy is lying. It was just dusting of doubt over my brain. Since then, more tidbits of information have started coming out about this realy scary dude. I'll withhold my judgement until the DNA tests come back.

“The only way to hurt a man who has lost everything is to give him back something broken." – Thomas Covenant

There was a survey on FARK a few days ago about where readers thought the best pizza in the world was. Everyone had their hometown favorite. My hometown favorite was Fat Cat Pizza in Lancaster, OH. “Was” is the word that puts the anchovies in that sentence.

We started picking up Fat Cat Pizza around 1979. They wouldn’t deliver out to our house out in the country so we had to drive through the bad side of town, the West Side, to get it. They had the BEST freaking pizza. The crust was thin and crisp. The sauce…(Here’s where I realize I am not a food critic nor am I keen to taste adjectives. Let’s just say it was great pizza.)

There was a Fat Cat’s West and a Fat Cat’s East. Rumor had it that a happily married pizza business couple became unhappy and split the family business, as well as the town of Lancaster, in half. The wife took Fat Cat’s West and hubby, Fat Cat’s East. I can’t remember the woman’s name, but she had a dog named Bear.

My brother started working at Fat Cat around 1983. My sister in 1985. I started in 1986. It was a family affair. You’d go in at either 4 or 5 and work until midnight. The dough was made in the morning and allowed to rise in wheeled, Rubbermaid trash cans. You would grab a ball of it and throw it in the flattening machine. A toss here and there and then on to the pie pan. There was some hand held, mid-evil torture device made from plastic that put dents in the dough. Add sauce, cheese and toppings. Into the oven you witch! Ta da, magically a cooked pizza came out the other side. In the box and cut it into squares with the giant, stainless steel scythe. In between pizzas there was time to fold boxes and drink free pop out of flour coated mason jars. What a job.

Then three-a-days started with Coach Redmen in football and I pussied out. I couldn’t keep up with going from 6am practices through midnight making pizzas. So I quit Fat Cat Pizza.

I didn’t quit eating it though. In my opinion, nothing beats a pepperoni/mushroom. I dreamed of it in Alaska and wrote about it in my journal when Acton and I went to Europe. At family gatherings we would always get Fat Cat’s the night before turkey. If you were late, dad would heat up slices in the oven. If you were really late, the microwave.

Now I live in Columbus and Fat Cat’s is still within reach. If I drive down, I can order it from the car and pick it up right as it comes out of the oven. It would still be warm when I got it home, but half of it would get devoured in the car. Corners first and eat inward.

Greg had a party recently. We went out to the Lancaster bars. I left my credit card at one. The perfect excuse to go back to Lancaster and get Fat Cat’s. The following Monday I drove down. I ordered. Picked-up. I was eating a corner within three minutes on the way back to Columbus…

And something was horribly, horribly wrong. The crust was different. Some kind of French bread crap. It was slightly thicker and had a taste that was not Fat Cat’s. The sauce was the same as well as the pepperoni and the mushrooms, but the combination of flavors was not Fat Cat’s. I kept eating squares, hoping that something would change. Nothing did. Doug wept.

I immediately called a few friends. I finally tracked down one that corroborated my taste buds. He had it a few weeks ago and it tasted different to him too. It was true. And an era was over.

Farewell Fat Cat’s.

Author’s note: I haven’t done it yet, but please feel free to call Fat Cat’s at 740-687-1966 and voice my displeasure. Tell them HolyJuan is pissed.

I don’t appreciate the Disney parks as much as I should. Didn’t make it there until I was 29 and by then I was looking at how the fake rock was sculpted and where the electronics were hidden. I’ve never had the opportunity to think it was real and that Mickey wasn’t actually just a 19 year old aspiring actor who was two years from finding out that he is gay.

My favorite part about the parks are the Photo Spots. In case you are not smart enough to figure out that the huge Chinese gateway or the monolithic statue are a good place to snap a photo of Uncle Bob, Disney helps you out by posting a sign telling you that it is.

Here’s a photo of Bill at Epcot and a photo of me at somewhere that is not Epcot.

The news reported this morning that a plan to bomb several planes between the UK and the US was uncovered and (hopefully) thwarted. The security lines at Heathrow were between 3 – 4 hours long because passengers were unable to bring any liquids through security and carry-on baggage was heavily restricted. Damn that sucks.

It’s been discussed that perhaps all passengers should be required to fly nude. This works for two reasons:

One: unless you cram the bomb up your ass, it would be very hard to smuggle on board.Two: religious fanatics are not allowed by their god to see naked bodies and therefore will not fly Three: (I just thought of a third) It has been scientifically proven that suicide bombers have small penises. While covering their shame with their hands, it will impossible for them to commit acts of terror.

I’m all for it. Except for the issue I might have (as illustrated below.)

Handsome Joe was the realtor that handled the selling of the house we used to call home as well as the closing of the house we now call home. Joe has also played the role of “Good Cop” and was the second set of Bs in my B, B, B and B story. Something you may not know about Joe is that he thinks he is a better story teller than I am. Here I must disagree with Joe, but of course, the bear and the fox have been arguing for years as to who is smarter and more handsome.

One other detail about Joe is that he is never wrong. And that is mostly true. There is one time when Joe (almost) might admit to being wrong. I enjoy his admittance.

One of my two problems in college was that I never knew when to leave well enough alone. Most women of college age know that guys are dicks and idiots and that a man will spend the night with a young lady and never call again. It’s expected and probably desirable for both parties. I thought I was clever. I couldn’t just have a one night stand. I’d go back for seconds and thirds. Maybe I felt guilty or maybe I didn’t know what I was looking for or maybe I was just really horny. Either either, I would lay down a fog of personality and talk my way back in the door each time. Suckers? Maybe.

After a couple three nights, their once unconcerned feelings towards me would change. This is when mine would go in the opposite direction. Then things would end not so well. Badly. Hurt feelings. Name calling. Tears. I was only trying to be nice.

The second of my two problems in college was that I always seemed to leave some personal item at a girl’s house, usually after the third or forth visit and especially right before I would call things off. Things like a necklace or a pocket knife or a book. Stuff I really didn’t need, but hated leaving behind. What really sucked was that this gave the girl a focal point to call and leave messages on our machine:

“Hey, this is 19 Palmer. Neither Joe, Betsy, Amy, Paul, Doug or Chris can come to the phone right now, but leave a message after the beep.”

Beep – Hi Doug. You left your necklace over at my place. Come over and pick it up.Beep – Hello Doug. Still got your necklace. Call me.Beep – Doug, I can meet you somewhere neutral. The Pub? Let’s talk. I’ve got your necklace.Beep – Goddamnit Doug. I’m going to throw this thing in the fucking trash if you don’t call me.Beep- Sorry about that. Can we please talk? Do you want this back?

Delete all.

Fall quarter came and went. It took me the whole quarter, but I charmed a girl I really liked from my film class into taking me home with her. The next day, Film Girl made me breakfast and gave me all the perishables out of her refrigerator. The perfect hook up. We did not talk over winter break, but hooked up immediately that winter quarter as if we had not been separated at all. Sadly, after the second night together, I realized that I didn’t like her as much as I thought I did. I got a very distinct and creepy vibe from Film Girl that she realized she couldn’t spend another day without me. I had to get out. So I left. And I left a pocket knife behind.

A few weeks passed and I avoided her calls. Her calls started normal but quickly became creepy. “I have your knife, Doug.” Click. I could have ended it all quickly, but I do not have a spine and pretended to miss her messages and avoid her bars. After a week, I didn’t hear from her and thought she got the point.

Handsome Joe and I went to The Crystal one night that winter quarter. It wasn’t our usual hang out, but Joe was tracking a new girl and in the interest of getting Joe laid, we entered new territory. We were upstairs and Joe was playing pool with said quarry. I drank and watched.

“Hello Doug.” Oh shit.

“Hello Girl from my film class that I really wanted to hook up with but now that I have I have had second thoughts and just want to be friends, but I am too chickenshit to tell you all this.” Actually I probably just said, “Oh, hello!”

“Are you here picking up girls?”

“No, Joe and I are…”

And in a flat tone that was just above the jukebox, but clearly we both knew she was yelling when she said, “I KNOW YOUR TYPE. YOU ARE HERE PICKING UP GIRLS.”

“Um, I… err.”

She held out her hand and my pocket knife was in it. She had brought it to the bar. It had been my Dad’s knife. Nothing I’d hide in my ass for five years in a POW camp, but it was still special.

She was glaring and smiling and talking at the same time, “If you want it back you have to come and get it.”

With that, Joe interrupted. The hate melted off her face as she turned to Joe and her grimace turned into a smile. They traded perfectly sane hellos and she excused herself. Joe said something to the effect that I was going to hook up.

“Joe, she’s crazy.”

“Doug? What are you talking about?”

“Joe, SHE’S CRAZY. We have to get out of here.”

Joe couldn’t believe it. She’s good looking. She’s nice. You are drunk. She’s a great girl.

“JOE, WE HAVE TO LEAVE!”

Joe usually does not give in without a fight or a good argument. So, I told him about the knife and that Film Girl looked INSANE. He didn’t believe a word. But, being Joe, he humored me and said goodbye to his girl. We grabbed our coats and left the bar. As we walked down the street, I kept repeating how insane the Film Girl was acting. Joe kept shaking his head with disbelief.

For some reason that neither one of us can explain, we both turned and looked back towards the bar. We were about a block away and the sidewalk sloped back up to The Crystal. Perfectly silhouetted with a streetlight at her back, Film Girl stood outside the bar.

She thrust her fists down to her side, arched her back and threw her head backwards. The lighting was perfect. Her shadowed mouth opened and into the night air she screamed.

“DOUUUUUUUUUUUUG!”

The words turned to condensation against the cold night air. They shot out in great gouts of steam.

“DOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUG!”

Joe and I both ran.

Later. “Doug, that girl was crazy.”

If you mention this story to Handsome Joe, he won’t concede the fact that he was wrong. What he will do is tell the story again, but in his words. He will describe the night and the smells and the temperature. He will hold out his hand and you will see the knife in it. He will go on about her beauty and how not-insane Film Girl looked that night. He will act out her stance on the street and you will almost see the steam coming from his mouth silhouetted in the cold night air.

A few years ago, Miss Sally received an old, leather bound bible after her grandmother passed away. The movie prop kind with gold lettering and yellowed pages. It contained not only the word of God, but several articles, photos, hand written prayers and even a pressed flower. Nothing was labeled, which is heartbreaking because you know that these items had significance, but they are now almost worthless.

But I am not here to shit in your coffee. I'm here to tell you the fun stuff.

It seems that Miss Sally's grandmother found an article in the newspaper interesting enough to cut out and place in the bible. The aged newsprint relates how Christmas only falls on a Sunday about once every 11 years. Nice. Those were the good old days. (click to enlarge)

But flip the article over and the fun begins. Here it is: (click to enlarge)

Wow! There was actually a sense of humor back in ye olden days.

When I first read the article, I was struck how the word "colored" was used. Obviously it was to state that the person mentioned was black, but even though the article doesn't have any whities in it, you know they aren't going to write, "Then along came Jonas Brown, white, and the real fun started."

I did not realize when I first read the article that it was satire. Real events, I'm sure, but written to make a simple stabbing fill a full column and to poke a little fun at all involved. Luckily today, our professional journalists do not make up parts of the news to sensationalize or create a more interesting story.

The article is cut off at the end and we do not know if poor Alonzo Moore, colored, survived the stabbing. I can only hope that the Brown Collection Agency is still a thriving business and helping whities, yellows, redskins and them sand people to reclaim owed monies.

After several days of oppressive heat, the weather turned and I had all my windows down on my way to work this morning. As I zoomed along at 75 mph, something flew in the driver’s side window and smacked me upside the temple. Fortunately, the part of my brain controlling the car wasn’t affected by the sudden jolt as it was wrapped in a blanket of Miller Light residue from Skully’s last night. I had one of those moments where you cover up a wound with your hand and hold it there hoping that the cut isn’t there and isn’t about ready to spurt all over the place. I slowly peeled my hand back to reveal a reddish area that was a nickel sized blemish and not mangled flesh. Phew.

Now I’m just pissed that something nickel sized flew in my car and hit me. So I start searching my car for the culprit.

A penny? A ball bearing? A washer? A stick? A rock? A box of Nerds? A French fry that would require carbon dating? A pencil? A pen? A bolt? A key? Another key? A coffee lid? An ABBA tape? A quarter? A lighter?

Well, it could have been any of these items because that’s what I found within an arm’s reach of the driver’s seat. I am a slob.

Do not feel bad for Miss Sally. Within the confines of her realm (everywhere that is not my car) her cleanliness reigns and her loyal subject keeps his squalor tidy. She’s got me trained.

I think I’ll spend a few hours and clean it tonight. Maybe it if I set a small fire in the backseat, the fire department will hose it out for me.

It’s interesting what you find when you are unpacking boxes covered in dust.

I once created two lists: one of words that sounded good and one of words that sounded bad. Good words don’t essentially have to have good feelings attached to them and bad words don’t have to be about bad things. They are words that, to my ear, sound good and sound bad. The list started small, but never really grew.

Hmmm. It seems that most the words on the bad list are bodily functions or excretions. Ooh… excretions. That’s a good word. I’ll add that in parenthesis. OOOH! Parenthesis!!! Another good one! I’ll quit now.